DEFINING MORAL COWARDICE
COMPASSIONATE ACTION ON STEROIDS
The United States, Canada, Australia, France, Romania…The whole world. Today literally millions of compassionate humans across The Planet are marching for what is the greatest social justice issue of our time. Millions upon millions of humans are no longer sitting idle while slaughterhouses abuse, torture and mercilessly kill nonhuman animals.
Bless us ALL who are taking action/lending voice
Until ALL slaughterhouses are closed….
MARCH TO CLOSE SLAUGHTERHOUSES WORLDWIDE
JUNE 13, 2015
See video of the masses marching today in Paris, France (below)
Artist: Katharina Rot
THE OAK AND THE HEATHER
by Mark Stewart
He had been running for a long time, so long that he could no longer feel his legs. His feet were cut and blistered, ripped by a razor wire mesh of brambles and thorns, and his body heaved with the effort of breathing. The fur on his throat and belly, once the colour of bridal satin, was now a tangled mane, matted and coarse: and though the mange was not yet upon him the chase had reduced his tail to a withered stump. Warily, he looked back along the length of the stream he stood in, listening for the sounds of pursuit. The hunt had begun yesterday morning and it was now dusk. He looked down at the water flowing over his torn feet and took a few sips from the stream, trying to fill his empty belly just to abate the nagging hunger that cramped his stomach. The dogs were close but he knew they couldn’t follow his scent in the brook and that if he reached the old farm house he could hide under the barn. It was a dangerous ploy; if they trapped him under the boards his running days were over. But he had to rest and sleep. But first there was the road to cross.
As he left the stream he thought for an instant of the mothering den and of his brother. The few brief weeks he’d spent in the den had been the happiest of his life. That too had come to an end with the sound of barking and the blaring horns. After that he had never seen his mother again. Or his brother. From that day forward his life had become a hunted thing. He had learnt to be swift and fleet and to court the shadows, even on a summer’s day. And he’d come to understand that most humans were dull creatures, devoid of imagination; they showed in his field of vision as dark silhouettes – blacker than a raven’s wing – without the aurora that accompanied other animals, even the ones that wanted to eat him. But in the ways of death the human mind was cunning and determined: they tried to kill him with snares, with poison, with guns, with clubs and with knives. And often with dogs. They had no respect for leaf or bough, stream or rock. Or for any living thing, not even each other. Once he had seen them shoot one of his avian cousins – the bright green birds whose wings flashed like mirrors in the sun – from a tree, laughing as it fell. “The first one of the season! Bloody nuisance. What a racket they make.” The killers had not collected their trophy but had left it on the ground to rot. Later, he had sniffed at the tiny body but had not been able to bring himself to eat it. The meat seemed tainted somehow.
In his short life he had known only one safe place, the tall oak that stood with two others at the end of a long garden. Under its roots he had made a solitary but inviolate home. He knew better than to venture into the adjacent plot even though it contained a great many hens, albeit all in cages. That was a place of death. Instead he waited for nightfall and the single figure that would walk, without fail, down to the end of the garden to leave meat and other scraps not far from the base of the tree, always on a sheet of newspaper. Sometimes in mid-winter and in early spring there was a whole carcass to eat; but mostly it was just the scraps, though these were always offered in abundance. He should never have left there. His mistake, he now realised, was to venture too far from the oak, into the adjoining fields. That was where the hounds had picked up his scent; and like a treasured bone they had refused to let it go.
Like the chicken farm the road was a place where life came to an end. He often saw the bodies of other animals at the roadside: the badger, the hare, the partridge. Death here was swift, faster even than the hounds, coming upon the unwary with bewildering speed. He paused at the edge of the road, so tired he had to sit, even though he knew he really shouldn’t.
He felt a sensation of warmth beneath his foot and looked down to see a small pool of blood. He studied it curiously, the way he had once peered at that tiny emerald bird, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real. He suddenly felt drowsy, more tired than he had ever been and knew with absolute certainty that the barn was beyond him. Better to wait here a while and sleep. Perhaps the dogs had lost his scent or were as tired as he was, and had given up. He knew that wasn’t true but right then all he wanted was to close his eyes.
He saw the lights in the distance far off down the road; in seconds the beams were upon him and then just as quickly gone again, like the hunting wings of an owl or hawk. Or so he thought. When he raised his head to look – and what an effort that required – the beams had come to a halt. A single silhouette walked towards him, emerging from the light, and for a moment he thought he was back in that safe place, sitting beside the oak, waiting for the scraps to arrive. And, yes, there was the familiar smell; if he could just get to the food he would be strong again, well enough to take up the run once more. He limped towards the piece of newspaper on which the food rested. When the cage door closed behind him he was too tired to care. Slowly he gulped back the food. He was asleep on the floor of the cage, his body curled around itself, before he had fully swallowed the last piece.
The man walked between the heather, tracing a path that only he knew. He was far from the nearest road, further still from the closest town or motorway. In his hand he carried a silver cage, which swung gently with the weight of its occupant. He didn’t have far to go now – just over that small rise – and smiled at the thought of what was to come. The gorse, with it endless capacity for snaring hooves and paws, made this poor country for a hunt, which meant it was ideal in every other respect. There was plenty of wild fowl and the many highland streams ran clear and clean. At the top of the rise he knelt and put the cage down. He took one last look at its occupant, a moment of farewell, and then lifted the door. There was an instant of hesitation and then the fox was gone. The man watched it bound over the heather until he could no longer distinguish its russet coat from the surrounding countryside. The first of the season, he thought to himself. May there be many more.
Mark Stewart, May 2015, All Rights Reserved
Republications approved as long as the entire short is republished with credit to author,
photographer and links to sources
For similar stories please visit The Screaming Planet on Facebook
Visit Artist, Katharina Rot Illustration on Facebook
BLESSINGS ON THE SURVIVORS
Her name is Thandi.
She has survived
a merciless attempt to end her life,
solely for profit from the sale of her horn.
She is a pregnant,
who has been saved
and is being cared for by compassionate human rescuers.
Every ONE matters.
Blessings on The Human Rescuers.
Blessings on The Survivors
of ALL species.
~ The Animal Spirits
BOUND TO SUFFERING
dictates that we,
at the very least,
show the reverence of imagining ourselves
in the place of another.
dictates that we feel WITH them.
dictates that we take action
to protect other sentient living beings from suffering.
Who is willing to continue to look the other way?
What you allow, will continue.
In empathy, compassion and mercy,
~ Gerean Pflug for The Animal Spirits
THE GREATEST MAGIC TRICK
“The problem is . . .
that humans have victimized animals
to such a degree
that they aren’t even considered victims.
They aren’t considered at all.
They don’t count.
like T.V. sets and cellphones.
We’ve actually turned animals into innate objects~
sandwiches and shoes.
It is the greatest magic trick ever performed.”
~ Gary Yourofsky
Gary Yourofsky is the founder of
ADAPTT (Animals Deserve Absolute Protection Today and Tomorrow)
(Image Credit Unknown)
RATS, COCKROACHES AND POLAR BEARS
The sun grew hot in the Arctic
Toxins rose from the ocean floor
Driven to extinction
We swam in search of icebergs
Hundreds of miles or more
My cubs drowned from exhaustion
Before I reached the shore.
Once on land I searched for food
I couldn’t find it anywhere
Invisible on Ice – Ignored on Land
The humans did not care.
Left to seek friends from low places
Among garbage and poisonous air
“Come dine with us, we have plenty to share,”
The rats and cockroaches
of the dumpsters and landfills
To The Earth’s
Last Polar Bear.
~ Written by Gerean Pflug for The Animal Spirits
November 15, 2014 All Rights Reserved
Copies and Re-posts permitted with a link back to this page
The Arctic Ice is melting
The water, air and natural habitats are being destroyed by the human species.
We are facing mass extinction.
What can you do?
Make every personal choice in compassionate protection of The Earth as a top priority.
In intense consciousness . . .
Accept personal responsibility. . .
Become Educated ~ Take Action~ Lend Voice ~
~ Gerean Pflug for The Animal Spirits
PHOTO NOTE: The name of the Matador in this photo is unknown.
Some say, the Matador’s posture is not one of sadness, but one of defiance to the bull.
This post ponders the few Matadors who have choosen to walk away.
looks into the eyes
of a sentient, living being,
and sees it’s soul,
stops in the middle of an unfair fight,
walks to a ledge inside the stadium,
hangs his head
and begins to cry.
A number of bullfighters throughout history, after recognizing the sentience of the living being they are torturing, have walked away from bullfighting forever. One such ex-bullfighter, turned animal rights activist was Alvaro Munera, who was quoted:
“And suddenly, I looked at the bull.
He had this innocence
that all animals have in their eyes,
and he looked at me with this pleading.
It was like a cry for justice,
deep down inside of me.
I describe it as being like a prayer –
because if one confesses,
it is hoped, that one is forgiven.
I felt like the worst shit on earth.”
Chiquilín, another repentant bullfighter,
claims to have seen bulls weeping.
He says that he cannot kill even a fly nowadays.
Read excerpts from the Alvaro Munera interview here:
Blessings on those who from a place of empathy and compassion,
take action to protect, defend and lend voice,
to innocent, sentient, living beings,
who cannot speak for themselves.
We feel. We suffer.
And in our suffering . . .
We suffer as equals.
~Gerean Pflug for The Animal Spirits
My name is Gerean (pronounced “Jer-ee-uhn) Pflug. That has not always been my name. My genetic grandparents were Cherokee, Canadian French Indian and German (respectively) My genetic mother was Cherokee and my genetic father was a full-blooded German immigrant. I was born in the United States and named Ronna Marie Bouvier Schinhofen. My genetic parents could not care for me, so at birth, I was relinqueshed to Children’s Home Society in Southern California. My parents, The Lillibridges adopted me and raised me in much love. I later was married, thus the name Pflug and although the marriage didn’t last, I kept the name. So, my full name is actually: Ronna Marie Bouvier Schinhofen, Gerean Lillibridge, Pflug, but you can just call me Gerean.
I love creativity, art, poetry, music, conversations of significance and wit, gardening, and above all ANYTHING to do with animals.
I have always believed that my love and connection to the animals began before I was born. My soul knew the connection before my body did. My connection with the animals has only grown stronger over the years. My mother to this day, rolls her eyes and says to me, “Oh, I swear you love animals more than people.” To which I nod my head and respond, “Yeah . . .for the most part, that’s true.”
I began this blog intially to write about my lifetime experiences with the animal spirits. But my own soul short-circuited those stories by injecting me with passion to write of issues of more international urgency . . . such as:
- Endangered whales being slaughtered inside of protected sanctuaries
- Endangered elephants and rhinos being massacred for profit for the ivory trade & aphrodesiacs
- Abused and neglected circus animals
- U.S. Wolves and other wildlife being completely obliterated from their natural habitats
- Millions upon millions of animals being tortured and slaughtered daily by factory (and free range) farming corporations
- Our oceans wildlife being taken from their habitats to be held captive in unspeakable environments for profit from ticket sales
- Horses being slaughtered in unimaginable ways
- Millions upon millions of sentient, living beings being subjected to unneccessary laboratory testing at the most evil of levels
And the list of “hits” just goes on and on . . and on. The unbelievable inhumanity that has been imposed upon the animal spirits at the hands of man, absolutely sickens me. I will not stop writing about these issues of global spiritual injustices until the day I take my last earthly breath. But, just in case that last breath comes sooner, rather than later, I wanted to get at least a few of my many stories down on “virtual paper.” This post is simply an intro with more to come.
MY LIFE WITH THE ANIMAL SPIRTS
by Gerean Pflug
I was raised by VERY loving parents who were old-school ranchers. I lived the early parts of my life on a 1,000 acre cattle ranch in an Oregon wilderness area and from a very early age experienced amazing relationships with ranch animals as well as wildlife.
My father was a hunter who provided the family meat via deer, or we ate chickens that we raised on the ranch because back in the days . . . we were so poor, we could not afford to eat our own beef. I began crying and begging my father not to kill the animals by the age of 4 yrs. old. His answer was gentle, but always the same, “Honey, this is the way we make our living and we gotta eat, so thank the good Lord for providing us with the means to survive.”
Later, my father moved us to land in the center of the Dairy industry in Southern, California, where he raised grain-fed beef. My job was to care for all of the animals, including the baby calves. Every time a new group of baby calves were delivered, I carried them around in my arms like human babies, they suckled my fingers, I bottle fed them and loved on them excessively. My dad would continually say, “Don’t go namin’ those calves, Honey. ‘Cause you know, they’re gonna become meat soon.” I ignored him each time, and named every one of the calves.
On the days that the butcher trucks would pull up, the men would get out with their rifles and begin to don their rubber boots and overcoats and position the wenches on the trucks. I’d start to cry hysterically, begging my father to spare the lives of my animal friends. My dad would tell my mom to keep me in the house. I’d hear the cattle bawling as they drug them to the spot to be killed. Each loud crack of the rifle would slice through my body and into my soul. I would sob in loud, endless heaves, while my mother held me and tried to soothe me. “Honey,” she’d say, you are so very sensitive, but you have to face the reality that the world eats meat and we make our living raising cattle for meat.
Eventually, my parents would tell me in advance when the butchers were coming, and my dad would have me pack a lunch, go down to the stable to ready my horse, then he’d tell me to ride out and not come back until late afternoon. Although I cried while I was gone, I didn’t have to hear the bawls and the rifle shots and it took an edge off of the soul-shattering agony, but in it’s place was still an overwhelming feeling of guilt for turning my eyes and my back and for the inability to save the lives of my animal friends.
After the butcher trucks left, in an attempt to perform a funeral of sorts, I’d walk to the site where my friends lives were taken. The dogs would be there, eating the remains from the blood-soaked ground, of what was left of a once innocent, sentient, living being and I’d cry to the sky where I believed that God was, and ask “Whyyyyy?”
It was in those days that I developed my-own-child’s mechanism for letting go and saying “Goodbye.” I’d pray to The Creator of ALL, that he would place a special blessing on the soul of the animal spirit (by name) now passed on to the ‘nother places. I’d ask God to whisper to my animal friend’s soul, and tell him that I was deeply sorry that I could not protect or defend him from harm. And then I’d say outloud . . . “___________(name of the living being) You mattered to me.” I still do this and say this at every loss of an animal spirit that my soul becomes aware of, including those that humans refer to so insensitvely as “roadkill.” Every single one of them . . . mattered to somebody. They did not live their lives without significance. They ALL matter to me.
These days, I continue to whisper to all animals, I intentionally send my soul thoughts to them, I pray for them, I feed them, I give them continual attention and affection, I write on their behalf, I adopt when I can, I donate what I can and . . . I DO NOT eat them. In return, they consistently show their appreciation by guarding over me and by offering me their consistent friendship. The birds that I feed tell their babies that I am their friend. Horses and cattle make significant eye contact and scratch their heads against my body. The deer bring their newborns to sleep directly below my bedroom window. The dogs sleep wherever I sleep and watch every move I make. Animals in need find me. The stories are so numerous ~ It will take more than a natural lifetime to write them all, but in future posts, I plan to write some of the most memorable.
To those of you who have been following my writing . . . to those of you who have encouraged me . . . to those of you who tirelessly and passionately take action . . .to those of you who understand and share in this love for our brothers and sisters the animal spirits, I thank you and wish for you the highest level of blessings in this earthly life and beyond.
Blessings on all
who from a place of empathy and compassion,
take action to protect, defend,
provide shelter to, feed,
love and lend voice
to innocent, sentient, living beings
who cannot speak for themselves.
~Gerean Pflug for “The Animal Spirits”